A noisy dinner with the other cookery school students had taken her mind off the unpleasantness of her run-in with shotgun man, although the adrenaline hangover had given her one doozy of a headache. Thankfully this had gone with a good night’s sleep.

‘Morning.’

‘Hello, lovely girl. How are you this morning? I’m so upset for you. How are you feeling?’

‘You heard then?’

‘Conor told me. Honestly, if it’s not one thing, it’s another with that man. I’ve put a call into the guard and I’ve phoned Murphy myself and Conor has been round there. It’ll not happen again.’

‘The police?’

‘Yes. I’ll not have him terrorising our guests like that.’

‘I’m sure if you’ve spoken to your neighbour, that’s enough.’ Hannah didn’t want to have to start giving interviews to the police. She’d spent enough time in police stations in her early career when she’d been a duty solicitor. ‘Please don’t bother the police.’

‘I’m not sure, Hannah, it’s a serious matter.’

‘I’d rather put it behind me. Honestly.’

Adrienne studied her and must have seen the implacable lift of her chin. Hannah could be very stubborn when she wanted to be.

‘Well, if you’re sure.’ She shook her head. ‘I hope you don’t think that everyone round here is like that. Now, for something a lot more pleasant. Let me show you one of the very best bits of Killorgally. My ladies. There’s nothing like the chickens. Their eggs are nature’s bounty and a boon to cooks.’

‘Mmm,’ said Hannah, bemused by the fervent light shining in her eyes.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not mad.’

Clearly Conor got his mind-reading abilities from his mother.

‘I didn’t… It’s just I’ve never been anywhere near a chicken before.’

‘Gosh, that is sad,’ she said and then beamed. ‘All that is about to change. You’ll never look back. I just know you’re going to fall in love with the girls. You’re in for a treat, Hannah. Difficult to believe that you really have never come across a chook before.’

Her words once again reinforced the realisation that Killorgally was a world apart from her life in the city.

‘Not many chickens in suburban Manchester, or certainly not round where I live.’

‘You’ll have to move,’ declared Adrienne with calm certainty. ‘Come on, they’re foostering to be out.’

‘Foostering?’

‘Good Irish word.’ She linked her arm through Hannah’s. ‘It means fussing, fidgeting. It’s perfectly apt. The way they walk, you know, all fussy, bustly, and madam-y. They’re like the village gossips, all desperate to be out. We have to shut them away at night because of the foxes. Beautiful creatures but destructive; they have an unpleasant habit of slaughtering the whole coop if they get in.’